


All of Ten Weeks

by KorrohShipper



Series: All of these Weeks [1]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Confusion, F/M, Hurt, Moving On, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Pre-Steggy Week Fic, Reunion, Steggy - Freeform, Steve Rogers is a Lousy Spy, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:00:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24904963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KorrohShipper/pseuds/KorrohShipper
Summary: “Remember, Captain.” He turned around and she was there, staring intently at him. “Youmustreturn.”
Relationships: Ancient One & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Azzuri
Series: All of these Weeks [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1802119
Comments: 3
Kudos: 46





	All of Ten Weeks

**Author's Note:**

> Am hyped for Steggy Week. Here's a little something to read while we wait.

**Week 1**

Like many things, it began with Bucky sitting him down with a straight-laced face. His lips had been set into a grim line and he looked him, dead in the eyes and said, “You’re going back.”

The line struck him oddly. “Of course, I’m coming back.” Steve says automatically and looks around. He sees Bruce fixing the wiring, testing out polarity of the quantum realm and whatnot, it was all scientific jargon that he didn’t understand either way.

Thor was there, cradling Mjolnir in his arms, whispering words into its bulky frame. He wondered what it was like for Thor with the hammer—a part of Steve thought of his shield, almost like a limb that when Thanos had swung against it, breaking it apart to chunks and pieces, he couldn’t breathe for a second.

Wanda and Pepper were there, too.

Morgan was out, glass of orange juice in hand, staring up at the people she’s recently come to know as her family.

There’s a pull in his gut. He can’t leave them. He has to be here, to guide them, to support them. To help carry on the mantle that Tony had left behind. It honestly felt like the biggest pair shoes he had to fill in, but it’s his role to play.

Those are the cards he was dealt with.

“No, you idiot.” Says Bucky firmly, his eyes set in what seemed like both reluctance and yet determination. “You’re not going to come back—you should _go_ back, back to our time.”

At first, Steve didn’t understand.

The 40’s weren’t even part of the time heist and Steve saw no reason to return there until the knowing look he saw Bucky had on his face. “No.” He flat out refuses, shaking his head, how eyebrows knotted together.

“And why the hell not?”

“ _Because_ ,” he says. “Because I have a duty here.”

“You owe her—and yourself—a chance to live that life.”

At that, Steve laughed. A real, guttural laughter that rang empty in his stomach and he would be lying if he said it didn’t hurt him. “What life?!” he was suddenly thankful of the seclusion his room in the cabin had offered. No doubt, others would have heard if they were outside.

“Stop bullshitting a bullshitter.”

“No, you stop.” He said with a grave tone. “Peggy lived a full life. She had a husband she loved, she had children and she changed the world and—” his voice broke, tears pooling in his eyes, “—and what right do I have messing that up?”

At that, Bucky placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, a look that bore into his soul and said, “Steve, you have to take this chance.”

From his seat, he stood up, shaking his head. “No.” He repeated, firmer than he had at first. “Listen, Bucky, I just got you back.”

“And I will always have your back,” he says with a sincerity that grounds the both of them. “Until the end of the line, remember?”

“I do remember that, Buck. That’s why I’m with you, ‘til the end of the line.”

There was a profound sadness on his face, a longing for the simpler times. Bucky wasn’t mourning him, he was mourning the end of an era. “This,” he says simply, “is the end of the line.”

There was a silence that reigned over them as a war raged on in his mind. He could, for a moment, Steve thinks, just go back. But it wouldn’t be fair to her, it wouldn’t be fair to anyone.

“Bucky, I want to—”

“—then go, Steve. Go back to her—” he cuts in, almost impishly and Steve had to school his features to a calm before resuming.

“—what I meant is that if I didn’t know what happened to her, to the guys, then yeah. Sure, I’d go back.” And he says it until he’s out of breath because every fiber of his body meant it. He would go back if it meant making sure they’re alright. “But that’s the thing, Bucky. I know they’re alright. They lived. They moved on, life moved on.”

“Would you just believe me and listen for once in your life.”

“Bucky, I know they’re alright, okay? They got on with their lives and they made it count and I can’t be the one to go back there and ruin things.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Bucky!” he yells sharply, his chest hurting already. “Listen to me,” he says, more gently this time. “They’re alright. We know they’re alright.”

“It’s not about that.”

“But what I don’t know is if everyone here will be alright. Thor needs to heal, I can’t leave Tony’s family, and Morgan she’s just a kid. Wanda’s still grieving, and Bruce can’t—

“What about you?!” Bucky suddenly yells himself hoarse, or maybe it was just because his voice broke. “Steve, you have to understand that I’ve always loved that big heart of yours, pal. You’ve always put the whole world first before yourself. But everyone here, they can make it through this. They know how, you taught them well. And yeah, we know that the people we left behind made it through alright—but what about you?”

“I’m fine.” He whispers and Bucky just shakes his head in disbelief.

“You’ve lived your life fighting wars, Steve. You need to get a life.”

“I do have one.”

“Destroying punching bags in SI gyms ain’t a life, punk.” He jabs sharply, lips pulled into a frown. “Listen, we’ve fought through world wars, aliens, terrorists, and even more aliens. You’ve given your life to service. Why shouldn’t you rest?”

Steve lets the words wash over him. “I can’t, Bucky.” He answers with a finality he hopes to convey. “Maybe, a lifetime ago, I would have tried harder. But I didn’t. I was needed for something else and the fact that I’m still here means I have something else to do.”

Bucky relented. After all, they had spent each other’s lifetime knowing one another. He should, by now, know that it’s practically impossible to get him to do otherwise once he’s set his mind to something.

“Just, hear me out, okay?” Bucky produces a backpack. It was lined with the same nanotechnology that was wired into the time travel suit. “I had Shuri made it. Promise me you’ll think about it.”

“Bucky?”

“Just, don’t do anything stupid, yeah?”

A small smile appeared on his lips, still utterly confused. “How can I? You just proved to me that you have all the stupid with you.”

* * *

**Week 2**

He was just about to return when he couldn’t.

Steve thought of Bucky, he must have known, somehow, someway. He knew that he’d be here, at the crossroads of his life, unsure of whether he would press on his time GPS to go back to where he should be, or to the life he thought he had left behind.

It was with a moment of weakness—“Just a moment. Just to know.”—that when he pressed the time and coordinates, he was faced with a city that he knew so well but now was so foreign to him that he felt more like a visitor gawking at the sights than a native who was born and raised there.

The spirit of Brooklyn remained the same.

The same brick buildings would scale up the alleyways and it still smelled of smog and smoke. It wasn’t very healthy, but his lungs could take it now.

Steve first went to the cemetery. There were flowers, no doubt courtesy of Ma Winnie and Becca who always placed fresh flowers on his Ma and Pa’s grave every once and so often.

His fingers recoiled at the first touch at the headstone. In the future, it had been so weathered, the headstones grew little pores, pockets of small craters and other marks of time.

“I’m home,” he said to the grave, eyes watering, throat closing up.

The return to 1949 had been a decision that rocked his core heavily. When he was returning the stones, Steve left the space stone for last. He thought that if he saw her once more, in that dark office window, then he would be satisfied.

None of that mission rush that had him reeling back to the moment he saw her in that office. He could have spent as much time as he wanted.

But the picture frame had him frozen like a deer in the headlights.

So, he went back, not to the future, but to the past that he spent so long clawing and being bitter about even though he’s spent far longer of his adult life in a distant time than the one he used to dream of coming back to.

The past was different, to say the least.

The rush of everyday life was missing.

Gone was the loud noise of a New York day. It was replaced by something much more calm, something much more simple.

He could see some kids in empty streets playing hopscotch, some of them playing tag or marbles. They even have those baseball trading cards. Steve chuckled to himself. He had one of those as a kid.

Then, he sees his old apartment building, the one he shared with Bucky. It’s just a few minutes our from Ma Winnie and Pa George. Even Becca lived nearby—

His stomach grumbled. Reaching his hand inside the backpack Bucky had given to him, Steve’s eyes widened. There was a note, on top of the many things stacked inside the bag.

“For some of that quality R&R, Captain!”

Steve could hear Shuri’s voice and found a secluded alleyway to unpack the bag’s content. His nanotech suit already morphed into period appropriate clothing, he pulled out a manila envelope, the dry seal of Wakanda imprinted on its sleeve.

American Identification papers, it said.

A number of documents that were included had been for intelligence gathering. Little pockets of information told Steve the use for this identity and why Wakanda had it—for inserting diplomats and other covert spies inside the country.

The name rang familiar and he pulled out a birth certificate, some army documents, and a driver’s license. Stephen Grant Wilson.

Steve scoffed. _Of course_ , that’s the name he’s now given.

No doubt, Bucky was in the future snickering as the identity was pulled out of the locker. It was a perfect alias. Stephen Grant Wilson fought in Anzio and then in Volgograd. He had learned that Stephen Grant Wilson had no family of his own, an orphan who joined up the army as soon as he could and had died soon after from sepsis from a wound that was never properly treated. 

As it turns out, the Wakandan government made measures to make the acclimatization of their operatives easier—there was a bank account with a healthy amount of zeroes that still would have left Steve staring even with the inflation in the future.

There was also a deed thrown in there, an apartment building in Brooklyn. In the future, he’s sure that the place had been refurbished, its insides cleaned out to make way for the swanky, upscale restaurant that boasts authentic American cuisine while ripping off people.

To say the least, money wouldn’t be a problem.

But that wasn’t going to be a problem, Steve amends. He’s not going to stay long. Just enough to get his bearings, to come to terms with what he’s lost.

* * *

**Week 3**

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”

Each time he says it, he becomes more of a liar than the last time.

Relearning Brooklyn wasn’t unlike the bicycle. It’s a reflex he’s practically born with. His patterns fall into a routine behavior of familiar movement. The adjustment period, despite wonky at times when he pats his pants pockets for his phone, was significantly easier than when he woke up in the future in the first place.

To begin, going back had been on his terms. There wasn’t a sense of loss in that area.

He had a surplus of Pym particles—“Wouldn’t hurt to be sure, Cap. Better safe than sorry.”—ready in his briefcase and his time GPS had been solar powered. His nanotech suit had advanced SI trademarked tachyon particles that helped repair minor damages over time.

His phone, which was packed in with a solar-powered power bank—again, courtesy of the smartest and snarkiest princess he’s ever known, Shuri—had numerous digital files on how to reset his time GPS using the autopilot to tether him back to the future or manually redirect him to the quantum realm and navigate.

It wasn’t like he had no options, or that he was stuck because he wasn’t.

Really, it was a matter of when he was ready to leave than the availability of the equipment.

But as the days passed by, he found it harder to leave.

Sister Edwina Bartholomew was still heading the orphanage and church, holding donation drives on Tuesdays and bread & soup drives on Wednesdays. She’s just as he remembers—a stoic face that would melt as soon as she hears children’s laughter playing around the orphanage grounds.

Art school was no different. There was a professor there, Old Man Garrick, he still guffaws like he’s an engine sputtering to start but he’s still the best art teacher and illustrator Brooklyn can show. He still saw the students crowding around the old man, staring in awe and admiration when he breaks down a sketch or a painting.

The bakery down the street was still around—in the future, the lot had been demolished in favor of building newer, taller towers for a condominium complex—and he could just about melt at the wafting scent of baked goods from the kitchen window. Steve remembers hanging around the back with Bucky, waiting for the delivery trucks from farms down south and they’d help around carrying the crates in exchange for a baked treat from the oven of Mr. and Mrs. Patmore.

Another shock had been the prices. He’s been ready to whip out dollars at a time when he remembered it was the time before the shocking inflation. Steve could only stare in shock sometimes. Everything was so cheap back then.

And there’re no supermarkets or big malls. The corner grocer and pharmacy, Stanley’s, had been one of the more famous hangouts in Brooklyn. He remembered seeing longshoremen from the Hudson river going all the way to Brooklyn just to get a true, New York milkshake.

It was, however, when he got to the corner grocer that he saw her.

Becca looked tired, and it made sense. Becca had just given birth some two months ago. Their eldest child and only son, Richard James “Jimmy” Proctor, Jr., invited him to a Christmas party in the future. He remembered because they still have that apartment. Sure, the furniture was different, but he could still trace his steps to the bath and to the kitchen with a blindfold.

But as far as the world was concerned, the silver-haired, glasses-clad Captain America historian Jimmy Proctor is still a babbling baby, 7-ounces, 20-inches long.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, you’re short two dollars, twenty-nine.” Said the clerk and Becca swallowed tensely and wore a tight smile.

“I’ll just return these, thank you.” Steve watched just behind an aisle and his breathing tightened. It was just a few years after the war. He and Bucky had been helping out the family by doing odd jobs here and there, taking up every ad illustration he could get.

With Buddy, the youngest Barnes sibling, still in school, Steve could only imagine how tight the money was back then.

So, just when she went out of the store, Steve grabbed the discarded item—it was a tin of formula and some other baby necessities—and some other essential groceries. The next he did was go across to a department store. He saw toys and other infant needs. He thought of Bucky, too.

There was a part of him that thought Bucky should be with him in Brooklyn, seeing his family. Not him, Bucky.

Then a darker thought—he was, somewhere in this world, awake and suffering.

Steve bought the items and bit back a grimace. This is why he can’t stay. There is no way in this world would he be able to keep the timeline intact if it meant Bucky suffering.

The best he could do is to make most of his visit, make sure Becca and Ma Winnie and Pa George were taken care of.

Despite resolving to leave as soon as he can, Steve couldn’t help the beam of pride in his chest and the smile on his face when morning broke and Becca, Ma Winnie, and Pa George woke up to groceries and other necessities on their door after he knocked and ran as quick as he could.

It was then, he began a new mission.

As he would find the closure to close that chapter of his life, he swore to make each life he met better.

There was a group of veterans, the other day, dealing with shell shock and he had formed a group, holding meetings every Saturday morning for counseling, the same way he did for those who had been left behind after the Decimation.

Thursdays had been for the orphans.

He had been spotted, one day, sketching the old parish with a child came up to him, a toothy grin in face and a wild curiosity aimed at him and his notebook. “You draw real good, mister!” said the little girl, one tooth missing, creating out a lisp and he thought immediately of Morgan when she had been a toddler, slipping on her ‘s’ and ‘r’.

Unable to stop the swell of his pride and passion for his work, he tapped the spot beside her, producing an extra pencil from his jacket that earned a gasp, as if he was a magician who just executed a trick. “If you want, I could teach you how.”

The result had been his asking the priest, who gave him a long side-eye glance asking if he’s seen him somewhere, if it was possible for him to stop by every Thursday to give some art lessons to the children.

In the end, it had spread to the entire neighborhood and the church basement was getting too crowded that he decided to use a vacant apartment room in the building as a classroom. Parents began sending kids on their afternoon time to learn how to sketch and color and just have an all-around good time.

Then—

Steve’s hearing is astute and sublime. So, he easily hears the rumbling of empty stomachs. The next day, he asked to attend a baking class. He sheepishly entered the room, late as he was, took it upon himself to learn how to bake cookies from Mr. Patmore—“The secret, Mr. Wilson, is the brown sugar, and a pinch of cinnamon to taste!”—and learned from the wives of the apartment building on how to cook a decent meal because he couldn’t live on light meals from the pharmacy for his entire stay.

But the gifts of culinary arts would not catch up to him.

He tried to learn, really. But he ended up with a blackened pan and his neighbor giving him an “A for effort” smile before sending him away with a Pyrex container filled with some meatloaf.

“If you’re craving for a nice, homecooked meal for a dime on the dollar, try the L&L Automat! They serve the best food there.”

So, in he went.

One last meal before his return to the future.

He had just about forgotten automats. They had been the rage back then but in the future, it was all microwave dinners of convenience stores with ready to eat meals. There had been a sign on apple pie when he saw a familiar face just by the window.

He’d remember that red smile anywhere.

There she was, laughing with a waitress, a bright smile on her face and it hits him—all his time in the future, expecting to see the Peggy Carter of that time, he was blinded because he had forgotten.

But clearly, his heart didn’t. His heart stopped just the same as he watched her, face tight, as she chatted with the woman before she was called to service other tables.

Peggy was there on a booth, conservatively nipping at the meal she had before her. He had heard that she was having trouble with her co-workers back then when she was still with the SSR after the war. Now that she had established SHIELD, he could see a lighter air to her, a happier smile to her.

She looked like she was ready to change the world.

And the most painful part was he wouldn’t be with her as she did.

He would only see her legacy.

The world that she had molded for the future generation.

With a pull in his gut, it was decided. He’d settle his affairs, leave the money, identity and property back to the Wakandan government and go back to the future.

He’s spent enough time with his head in the past.

* * *

**Week 4**

The legal process of leaving everything he has back to the Wakandan government was much more difficult than he had anticipated.

The embassy said that a donation of that amount would need time to assess the value of the property and the amount of liquid assets to be transferred and that would take a week or so because their accountant had been away on family leave.

It was then that he learned of a new routine.

Peggy exited the office always at six o’clock. She would hail a cab to take her to Central Park and there she would walk around, stopping at occasional benches, until 7:30 before returning to her apartment at the upper east side of Manhattan, courtesy of Howard Stark.

She always stopped by the statue erected of him. It was Peggy’s favorite statue because he wasn’t in a Captain America costume or his olive green Class A uniform. No, in the statue, he was just about ninety pounds soaking wet with crumpled up newspaper in his shoes.

The statue version of him had a sketchbook, looking up to the sky and squinting, as if he was blinded by the sun. He looked scrawny but Steve couldn’t help but think of the time longingly. He was so young back then.

And then, with a stark realization, she had grown so much since he had last seen her, too.

Peggy talked with his statue, telling him of the exploits she had in founding SHIELD, Howard and Chet by her side as they convinced Congress on green lighting their new intelligence agency. She also told of him of a man.

His name’s Daniel.

She says, there’s a part of her that will always love him, but Daniel is a man she saw herself moving on with, moving forward with her life. They’ve broken up, a decision they both made but not without teary goodbyes and a promise of a better tomorrow. Daniel had been snatched up by the FBI, making him the youngest regional division head when the SSR was dismantled.

“Oh, I think you would love him, Steve.” She says with a fond smile. And, the way she lights up about him, Steve thinks he does like this man.

From how she described him, Daniel was a man aware of his limitations, but he never used that as an excuse to hinder him from doing something else, something greater. In fact, he often used it to his advantage.

Daniel’s a man who stood up for the little guys, who understood and recognized the worth Peggy had and gave her the respect she inherently deserves when others didn’t. He didn’t expect recognition or anything else in return from anybody or Peggy.

The more she talks about him to the statue, the more the realization dawns on Steve that so much time has passed by. Despite being the same determined and tenacious and driven Agent Carter who changed the world one day at a time that he knew from the war, she’s someone else to him.

Steve also wonders, if in the future, Daniel is the mysterious husband in the future that Peggy has never mentioned.

Right now, he’s over at the west coast. Handling cases there. He wonders what future has in store for him.

“I think, one day, I shall give him a call.” Peggy says, looking at the sky. “What do you think of that, my darling?”

“Do it.” He says, whispering to the wind, not hoping she’d hear.

If he was the future husband, he thought with a bittersweet smile and solemn nod, then he would trust her. Peggy wouldn’t settle for anyone who isn’t deserving. She’s made that abundantly clear.

He was right. Peggy and the others are going to be alright, they’re going to be okay.

Now, all he needs is to make sure than when he does come back, he’ll be alright, too.

* * *

**Week 5**

It should have been this happy day.

The paper works had arrived. There was an appraiser who estimated the net value of the property and did a site visit. The accountant had calculated the necessary tax and bureaucratic monetary hoops he had to jump over and the lawyer had drafted and readied the paper needed to hand over the deeds and bank account to the crown and country of Wakanda.

A meeting was already set up for next month. While he convinced those at the embassy that he had no malicious intention in his donation, the inherent value and sudden timing of the donation warranted a private audience with the young King Azzuri who was in Europe at the time as part of a delegation for autonomy for African colonies yet to be given independence.

He should have been ready but the day it had arrived, the notice of the end of it all, he woke up in cold sweat, a nightmare plaguing his nights the way it had when he had first woken up from his icy slumber.

He should have been ready. He should be happy to get the closure he didn’t get.

Instead, there was a dread.

He didn’t know why, but he went all over to New York. A part of him kept craning his neck at the sky, wondering when Tony would show off and the crowd would go crazy as he’d do an exhibition, a stunt in the air as he land on the tower when he realized, there was no tower.

The tower wouldn’t exist. “Not yet.” No Tony flying around in his suit, or SHIELD planes and helicopters buzzing around the city, or Dr. Hulk using a pencil to type om computers, not even Clint firing dummy arrows at empty soda cans. All of that's a lifetime away.

“You are not supposed to be awake.” Said the Ancient One with a neutral tone. “Not yet.” She parroted.

“No, ma’am, I’m not.”

She went around him, an air of mystery to her. “And yet you are here, beyond time and reason. And you know you should not be here.”

All of a sudden, he felt like he was inside a police interrogation room, being drilled down for answers he didn’t know himself. “I. . .I’m lost.”

Then, a side-eyed glance and a smirk. “No, you’re not.” She points out, as if it was obvious enough for everyone to know.

“Not lost literally, I meant, I don’t know, inside?” he plopped down against the wall and stared at the skies. “I came here thinking I’d get some closure, I didn’t know this would happen.”

“And what did happen, Captain?”

“I was supposed to leave, and now I can’t.” He looked up, hoping to see reason, instead, she bristled away to the opposite end, not bothering to look back.

“And you’re hoping for what exactly, Captain, that I set you to the right path? Tell you what you’re supposed to do? Tell you where you’re supposed to be?”

He stared at the woman, breathless and silent. His chest heaved up and down and his chest burned because he wanted to scream. ‘ _Yes_ ,’ he wanted to tell her. ‘ _Yes, tell me to leave now and never return_.’ Because he’s scared. He’s scared that he wouldn’t be strong enough to leave it all behind when the time came for him to go.

Steve wanted her to push him in the direction he thought was right, the push that would send him typing up the proper date on his time GPS and just go home to his friends in the future.

He honestly felt like tugging at his hair, just pace around and let loose and scream and yell, but that wouldn’t make any difference. Not the ones that matter, anyways.

So, his gaze rose, his eyes pleading at the Ancient One. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Correction, Captain,” she said austerely, not bothering to look up from watering a potted plant. “You do know what to do, you just don’t know how to do it yet.”

His heart pounded in his chest. “So, that’s it?”

“What were you expecting then?”

Steve opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water and gaped, unable to form coherent words or a sensible string of thought. “It’s just like that?” he settled instead, letting his tongue feel like a sheet of lead inside his mouth.

Of course.

The past isn’t for him.

The path that was laid out for him lies in the future. He should have known.

Coming back was a mistake.

Steve came to that New York rooftop hoping that she would set him straight with a lecture, an angry lesson with vivid imagery of sorcery and magic of how the balance of the universe was tethered to a tightrope and that he must do his utmost best to preserve this. Instead, he was given a sharp look and what seemed like a withering gaze.

“I need to go back, don’t I?”

Naturally, it’s surprising that he would even expect something else, she evaded. “Yes. You must go back. Only, you do not know what to come back to— _yet_.”

Swallowing down the growing irritation at the vague and evasive answers given to him, Steve just breathed in deep and looked at the skyline. His heart tugged at the promise of seeing a different one come one week’s time.

“Can you just do me a favor?”

“You are in no position to pull favors, Captain,” and then, she turned around, an impish smile on her face and he had an inkling of what she was going to say, “Not ye—”

He nodded along. “Yeah, yeah. Not yet, I get it.” He looked at the Ancient One who looked, suffice to say, amused at his confusion and exhaustion and every wild emotion that came tumbling on his mind.

“So, what is your request, Captain?”

With a cough, he cleared his throat and surged a few inches forward. “Is this—what I’m doing—is it keeping the timeline intact?” because of the many things Steve cannot stomach, it is the thought of undoing all the hard work and sacrifice that his friends and family made to bring back those who were decimated.

“It is.”

For once, he was given a straight answer and Steve couldn’t help the painful tug in his stomach that hoped against all hope that maybe it was his destiny to stay in the past.

But, again, it’s not like he didn’t know that the future was his place in time.

“Thank you,” he murmured softly, letting the wind almost carry the words away. “I guess, for your help.”

He was just about to go down the flight of stairs when a finger gave his shoulder a soft but weighing tap. “Remember, Captain.” He turned around and she was there, staring intently at him. “You _must_ return.”

* * *

**Week 6**

Tying up his loose ends in the past is as depressing as it sounds.

While the money and property will revert back to the Wakandan government, it essentially still belongs to the same man, ‘ _Stephen_ _Grant_ _Wilson_ ’, the only difference lies with who that man is. Nonetheless, for those who he’s met, life will go on albeit with one face less.

Using the money, he had earned from the weekly rent of his tenants, Steve began to ease in his departure.

Managing the accounts of the property, Steve managed to secure a long-term contract with a handyman in the area to attend to the needs of the tenants. A tenant of his, Dennis Washington, would take care of the property as stipulated as a condition in his donation.

Armed with the knowledge of future technologies, Steve made sure to fix and upgrade all building facilities to make distribution of heat, power, and water much more efficiently to help cut down on the costs, especially for the single parents who struggled to make ends meet.

He also took the time to meet with the elderly woman who lived in a small house across the street from him, Mrs. Pozniak. He also left a tip with a young policeman to do rounds near the home in case she’d need any help once he’s gone.

But, as he made his way to make sure the timeline was intact or that everyone he met and their families would be fine or unaffected by any time ripples in the future, he also began to amass a surplus of time.

Baking and basic cooking lessons with Mr. and Mrs. Patmore were always a welcome treat, especially because he couldn’t depend on the bank account anymore when it’s all lined up to be donated back to Wakanda.

There, he noticed some women—mostly young wives and teenage daughters—giving him extra attention instead of Mrs. Patmore when she’s teaching them how to make a custard. Some of the bolder women even tried to ask him out on a date, but he’d just flush a shade of crimson before politely refusing.

Now, as he’s been hearing from the community, he apparently had a girlfriend who was a nurse in Hawaii when the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor. That he’s too heartbroken to move on from the memory of his dead sweetheart.

 _The things they come up with_ , Steve thinks to himself and shakes his head. But he couldn’t complain, not when the problem had solved itself for him.

He focuses on the art class.

Soon, he won’t be around. Thankfully, he’s recently made the acquaintance of a few art students who was more than happy to sit in his classes and ended up taking over. Steve remembered sitting atop a sturdy, spare wooden table tucked at the corner of the empty apartment room and watched as Dina and Frank, the art students from Old Man Garrick’s class, as they animatedly began to tackle a new lesson on the symmetry and the rule of thirds.

While it was still a painful tug in his heart that he’ll soon leave, he found that with each step he took to ensure a leaving a better Brooklyn than he found helped each heavy step grow lighter as he walked away.

* * *

**Week 7**

He sees her, upon his evening stroll in New York, exiting from a building. He pressed his back against the wall of an alleyway, careful not to look too intently at her and just turning his back so he wouldn’t seem suspicious enough for her to warrant looking around.

New York Bell Company.

Steve’s read about it before when he was in the future. It was in the SHIELD handbook, a brief section that explained the history and the reason as to why its covert headquarters were usually snuck inside telephone companies.

The building, which previously housed the SSR, now served as the New York corporate headquarters of SHIELD. Steve recalls, if he remembers correctly, in 4 years, Peggy, Howard, and Chet Phillips would go to Washington once the president approves of their new funding program after their efforts to stop the Korean War from escalating and stretching further.

After moving to Washington, they’ll move SHIELD back to New York— _or_ , Steve thinks wryly with a dry smile, _New Jersey_ —after a lengthy legal battle with the United States Army, with official capacity, transfer the employment transcript of one Captain Steven Grant Rogers and Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes to SHIELD, making them the first to ever decorate SHIELD’s wall of fallen soldiers. All of that in 6 years after moving to Washington.

Unable to help himself— _for closure_ , he tries to convince himself, the pathetic liar, honestly—he tried to follow her around once more after finally ridding himself of the habit of hanging around the park where she would talk to his statue, tell him of her adventures at work whether it be of the antics Howard gets himself tangled up in or Chet’s gruff and long-suffering sighs that hide a hint of pride whenever they’d get some traction on moving forward with the agency.

He follows along in the opposite side of the park, nearly parallel to her. He sticks enough to the shadows to stay hidden to an ordinary person.

But then again, Peggy Carter isn’t an ordinary person.

So, he let her pace forward even more, pausing to gaze at the sights of Central Park.

He makes a promise to himself, then and there, to visit Central Park once he’s back in the future. Not just to stroll, but to really take his time.

But for now, he settles, instead, listening to the rhythmic pattern of Peggy’s heels click against the concrete pavement.

And, for all the thoughts that came to his mind, he thinks of the world she’s going to mold, the reality he’ll come to wake up to in the future. He thanks her because even though he had left, she had worked to change the world to the point where, when he woke up, he was lucky enough to see little glimpses of triumphs she achieved. Everywhere he went, he saw a tiny piece of her that reminded him that she had fought the good fight—and she succeeded. 

“Thank you.”

He breathes out, that very moment, and turned around, leaving her on her route home.

* * *

**Week 8**

Steve goes to watch a Dodgers game, affording himself a nice view at Ebbets Field and he thinks to himself this maybe the only good thing that the future does not have.

He would groan animatedly whenever his team would lose a point, but he end up cheering the loudest when Roy Campanella hits a home run against the Cincinnati Reds and the whole stadium erupted in a loud cheer.

Like a kid on Christmas, he jumped and threw his hands in the air when the team ran to the open court, cheering loudly as they celebrated the win.

At times like those, even though Steve likes to himself a peaceful guy, he hates O’Malley for taking his Dodgers away from Brooklyn with a burning passion.

After the game, he’d go to the cemetery and he’d talk to his Ma and Pa’s graves, telling them of his stories of how Tony had once bought out an entire shawarma franchise because of an offhand comment that he gave him that he didn’t know there were multiple flavors.

While waiting for King Azzuri to go to meet with him, Steve often found himself reminiscing of the future.

It was funny, he thinks, that when he was in the future, all he could do was think of the people and the times and the life he had left behind in the past but now that he’s back in 1949, all he could think was the future.

He kept thinking of the future despite knowing, if he truly wanted to go back, all he had to do was simply put on a watch and punch in a time and place. It was that simple.

And yet, that one Saturday night, he didn’t know what ghost or insanity had possessed him.

There was a sign plastered near the door of the Stork Club. It was an effort to increase the customer drive. It was a one time offer, says the poster and the flyer handed to him by the doorman. The Stork Club would open its doors to all the veterans to enjoy themselves a free night out—free entrance but overpriced drinks, so, go figure.

In a moment of weakness, Steve tugged on the nanotech suit. Surely, this wasn’t what Tony had in mind when designing the technology for the suit they would use for time travel but he pressed on a calibration tab nonetheless as he stood in front of the a whole body mirror inside his room and watched as the white film of his jumpsuit morph into a familiar set of his olive drab uniform.

For a moment, in a split second, he was lost in the reflection.

With his hair shaven to a clean cut, to the familiar feel of the uniform, Steve couldn’t help but hear snippets of his past during the war, back from when he was an 5’4” asthmatic, to his brief tenure as a lab rat, his embarrassing stint as a dancing monkey, and finally to this—a captain in the army.

He could almost begin to hear Dugan singing in that pub in London. Echoing his offer of joining his team, and saying, with a growing smile, that he’s in only if he pays for the next round of drinks.

Jarring himself out of his thoughts, Steve made his way to the Stork Club and when he entered, he sucked a breath in.

It was like the dance hall he had seen when Wanda had messed with his mind.

The loud sounds of flash bulbs echoed throughout the hall and he could see her, in that blue dress. He could feel the music, taking his body and dancing the night away with her.

But instead, he sat at the bar, sipping on a drink that he knows has absolutely no effect on him.

A woman came up to him—

“Mr. Wilson!”

Steve squinted, at first, until recognition kicked in. “ _Oh_ , Kathleen.” He said, somewhat lacking in energy but she didn’t mind, or didn’t catch on to his disinterest or his preference that he be left alone with thoughts.

Kathleen Hart was one of the younger students of Mrs. Patmore's class. Also, Steve thought as he remembers her numerous glances at his direction, one of the least attentive.

“I thought I saw you there!” she gushed going over to her side and he spies around the crowd, managing, by the dim but brass lighting that rang to him in an almost sepia in feel; old and faded.

“Yeah, saw the offer,” he gave her a half-shrug, unable to bring himself to truly mean it. “You know, uh, Saturday, 8 o’clock on the dot. I had a date once, guess the habit, it, _er_ , caught on.”

Because if Steve was honest with himself, his standing there by the bar since 7 in the evening, craning his neck at the door, spending his Saturday there, there was a motive to it, whether he acknowledges it or not.

“My folks are here, too!” she waves across the crowd of people and a couple, across the other end of the hall, waved back. “Say, you clean up nice, Mr. Wilson.”

He gave her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Instead, he glanced at a polished and bespoke clock. It was nearing 9 PM already. “Yeah, uh, you look beautiful, too.”

Kathleen blushed before shooting glances at the dance floor, her eyes teetering towards his hand, which, in her mind, he thinks, she wants to hold. “You waiting for someone?”

 _Yes_ , his heart says.

“Just here for the night.”

Then, the band plays something lively and upbeat, something with all the brass and drums and it felt loud, akin to the terror he was shown in his mind. Kathleen, on the other hand, brightened up. “Oh, golly!” she said. “They’re playing the new Bing Crosby song!”

Suddenly, she tugged on his hand, leaning animatedly towards the dance floor, grinning at him, “Come on, Grant,” she says his name, sounding foreign from having to hear it to his face, “Let’s dance!”

However, for someone who fought a man with a quite literal red skull, fought in the second world war, in another war with aliens, with his own teammates, and then a titan who decimated half the life in this universe only to fight same titan to bring them back, Steve found himself terrified.

So, when Kathleen tugged on his arm again, he froze and planted himself firmly on the ground. “Grant?” she asks, the smile somewhat fading.

He shakes his head. “I’ll just step on your toes,” he withdrew his hand, not meaning it to be unkind, but that was probably the impression she got and he began to apologize profusely.

“It’s alright,” she says, recovering from his sudden actions. She takes a step closer, wary but still welcoming all the same. “If you don’t know, I’ll teach you how to do this new dance that all the craze. . .”

_“You know, I still don’t know how to dance.”_

_Static sounds over the comms and the radio cackles back to life._

_“I’ll show you how. Just be **there**.”_

Steve withdrew stepped back and shook his head, more firmly this time. At this gesture, Kathleen slows down and catches on. “Oh.” She says softly, disappointed.

“I just,” he tries to explain, breathlessly, “I just want the band to play something slow.”

He knows, to her, it doesn’t make sense. In fact, it doesn’t even make sense to him.

But it wasn’t right. It was a pull in the gut feeling that he knew better than to betray or ignore. Steve once again stood by the bar counter, sipping on a drink with no real effect on him and wishing for something he doesn't truly know.

It’s not his dance to collect.

* * *

**Week 9**

He finally sees him.

Steve bows in respect, giving the young man a pleasant smile. “Your Majesty.”

He looked around, dressed in the sharp suit of 50’s fashion and when he smiled, hand tugging along an unexpected addition, Steve was taken aback.

In his life, he’s only ever seen him once. It was an interview about African nations and he saw the graying King T’Chaka, speaking of how, while it was important to help out their neighbor countries, Wakanda cannot in any capacity open its borders just yet.

But now, as Steve made way inside the hotel room rented by the embassy, he was honestly taken aback by how similar King Azzuri looked like his son, the eight-year-old who watched the world in fascination, staring out the windows.

“ _Mwana_ ,” King Azzuri says gently and softly, a smile playing on his lips. “Come here.”

The young boy obediently follows and looks at him intently, a curiosity already burning in his eyes and it strikes him in a way that he sees Shuri, her mind already tinkering with ideas.

“Mr. Wilson, it is a pleasure.” The king says in heavily accented English, holding his hand out and he gladly accepted. “It is nice to finally have a face to the name.”

“Likewise.” He says earnestly before the king directed them to a seat by the balcony. Prince T’Chaka was already sketching things in his notebook.

“My ambassadors tell me that you want to donate a huge amount of money to our country, and a property.” A set of china was set out on the table and Steve tried to pour the tea, but the king insisted. Softly, he murmured his thanks. “Why is that? Usually, it is the other way around—African nations paying tribute to their white colonizers.”

Steve took it in stride and didn’t let the comment faze him. “I know what you must be thinking.”

King Azzuri hummed in agreement and gave his son a soft look. “I am aware of the conflicts that sway this world, Mr. Wilson, so forgive me if I am wary of your sudden ‘ _donation_ ’ to my government.”

“It’s nothing malicious, I assure you, Your Majesty.”

“Even so,” the king answered in this austerity that reminds him of his grandson, “a man does not give away a fortune without expecting for something in return.”

King Azzuri gave him a side-eyed glance and he shrugged. “You know about my nation’s treasure.”

“I do.”

Then, in a smooth flick of his wrist, Steve is presented with the golden ring that was soundly worn on the king’s left hand. “Then you know what this is?”

“The Black Panther, yes.” Then a surge of gratitude. T'Challa and his army's return had been the respite and much needed miracle that helped turn the tides of the battle.

There was a silence, save for the soft mumbling of Prince T’Chaka. “Then you must know, as both a king and a father—” Steve recognized the softness in those eyes. It was concern, the same he saw that flashed in Tony’s eyes, “—I cannot allow you to mine vibranium, Captain.”

Steve hid a smile. “You know.” He says, not as an accusation and King Azzuri cracked a smile.

“Wakanda may be an isolated nation,” he reminds with a chuckle, but a ringing of solemnity stood out, “but we have eyes and ears all over the world.” And then, a playful grin. “Also, thank you for your service.”

Steve glanced a look at Prince T’Chaka, who simply radiated a childish-innocence, who had a light that burned brightly inside of him that reminds him why exactly he joined up—or at least, in the beginning, tried to join at least 5 times.

“I don’t like bullies,” he admitted. “But for him, for them, the children and our future,” he says with a gravity as solemn as an oath that his life depended on, “I’d gladly join up again.”

“But you’re not joining up.” He notes with an astounding accuracy.

“I’m not.” Then, he produces the manila envelope he’s carried around. It carried the seal of the Wakandan Royal Family, a seal that he knows is still being designed by King Azzuri, a design that will be approved next year.

“How do you have this?” strangely enough, there wasn’t a wariness to the king, only a genuine wonder and curiosity.

“Would you believe it if I said I time travelled?”

“Believe it?” he echoes with a laugh, catching the attention of his son, “I am now speaking to a man who wishes to donate a fortune to my government, a famous war hero who is supposed to be dead and now a decade older?” it was so hearty, the king’s laugh, and contagious that Steve found it hard not to laugh along.

“So, do you?”

“Is Wakanda in possession of a metal that defies physics? Am I the current holder of the Black Panther mantle?” Steve now understood where Shuri got her sense of humor from. “Of course, I believe you. Time travel, it appears, is the most believable of explanations.”

In a period of time where he had to hide himself and what he knows, Steve remembers that Wakanda is far more technologically advanced that it lets on. It feels easy and he feels like a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders having someone to talk to about his experiences in the future without being called crazy or a lunatic.

“Well, then, since you believe me, I come from the year 2023—how I got there is a long story, basically I’m still in a frozen stasis in the arctic only to be defrosted in 2010. And I came back in time for a mission, it’s finished now.” He leaned in closer, careful not to alert T’Chaka, “I came back for closure but your granddaughter had the idea that I’d stay here in the past.”

That, of all the things, puzzled the king. “You’re not?”

Steve shook his head. “No. You see, I need to get back to my people. I’m tying up loose ends.”

King Azzuri nodded, understanding the implication of it. “So, you are returning this gift, given by my granddaughter, so that, in the future, when you go back, she will give you this?”

Steve shrugged, a sheepish smile on his face. “That’s it in a nutshell.”

So, imagine his shock when the one person he thought would understand this situation, his situation, had shook his head. “No.”

Steve blinked. Once and then twice.

“No?”

“No.” The king repeated with a laugh. “Captain Rogers, I refuse your donation, _for now_.”

Steve shook his head. “No, this is the last thing I have to do in 1949, Your Majesty—”

“Call me Azzuri, yes?” Steve gaped at first, but quickly regained composure. “None of this titles. It’s very tiring.”

“Er, yes, _Azzuri_ —” it felt strange to address the king, but he looked pleased at the informality of it all. “But I need to do this. This will close the time loop, make sure that when I go back, it’s just as I found it.”

“Captain—”

“Please. Steve.”

“Steve, you forget that Wakanda is a place of spirituality. Our connection to the realms beyond the physical is much more tangible. It is not yet time.” Azzuri stretched out his hand and placed it on his shoulder. “You have done much for our kingdom, and for my family,” he looks over at the young boy who smiled at them. “You will always have a friend, an ally, and a home in Wakanda.”

The door opened behind them and Azzuri hid a growing smile before standing up and taking T’Chaka with him. “Come now, _mwana_. Say goodbye to our visitor.”

“But—”

“I will expect a visit when the time is right, Steve.”

“Bye, Captain!” said T’Chaka before leaving the room.

“You have not returned to where you are supposed to return, Captain.”

Steve quickly turned around and gaped.

It was the Ancient One.

“I can’t.” Steve answers. “He won’t accept the donation. It won’t be a closed loop.”

And then, finally, the Ancient One waved her hand around and Steve got the vivid imagery of magic and sorcery as it danced around the room. But it wasn’t anything grand. It was just a simple, glowing line that hung among the stars and sands of time and space.

“And why does it need to be a closed loop?”

“Because,” he answered weakly. “Because I need to keep the timeline intact.” And then, it dawns on him. That is the timeline, the very glowing strand of singular flow before him. That’s the timeline and it was intact.

“Again, I ask you, Captain, why have you not returned yet?”

* * *

**Week 10**

He knocked on the door and straightened his collar.

Peggy opened the door, an expectant look on her face, her lips pursed into a thin line. “I. . .what do you say about that dance?” and Steve thinks, finally, that this is the dance he is supposed to collect.

 _But only_ , he reminds himself, _if it was what she wants_.

However, all the mental scenarios that he’s thought of, particularly of Peggy Carter pulling a gun to his face was all for naught when she pulled the door even wider. “Come on in, then, you hot and dusty traveler.” He blinks and hangs on the word. Traveler.

Of all the things he’s imagined in his life, he never once thought that Peggy would expect him to arrive at her doorstep, tired and decidedly not dead in an arctic wasteland. But she’s Peggy Carter, after all. There’s no amount of forearmed knowledge from the future that could prepare him for someone like her.

“Tell me just where you’ve been—”

Then, out of reflex, he cuts her off because he thinks on the timeline until he remembers Azzuri and the Ancient One. It is intact, preserved. This is where he is meant to be. “I can’t say that,” he says instead in light humor. His voice now breaks in exhaustion because he is so tired after so long a time, he is finally home. So it doesn’t matter that he is near crying when he speaks again, “If it makes a difference, I couldn’t call my ride.”

Peggy straightens her back and holds out her hand, taking him inside the apartment. “Consider yourself fortunate then, Captain, that it does make a difference, I’ve shot men for less.” She says imperially with all the silent emotion of the British upper lip, a mix of an impeccable ring to a woman ready to sit down for tea or serve a mean right hook.

Unable to help himself, he looked into her eyes, gaining a momentum of cheek and confidence. “You did shoot me, though, for being late.”

“ _At_ you.” She rolled her eyes, but they showed just a tiny glimmer of tears—tears of joy, of relief, of contentment because they’re finally here. “Always so dramatic.” She whispers.

He looks down, gazing upon her and thanks Bucky for pushing him to do what was right.

It turns out, he had all the stupid with him after all.

“Only for you, Peg.”

**Author's Note:**

> It was fun writing this fic. What was your favorite week that Steve spent in the past?


End file.
